The
Whaanga
sisters

The Whaanga sisters (Ngāti Kahungunu, ​​Ngāti Porou) were children in the 1960s when their whānau moved from the East Coast to the city, lured by the quarter-acre dream and the promise of a Department of Māori Affairs house. Now they’re in their 60s, and these children of the urban migration are kuia without homes of their own.

And they’re not alone. Right now, fewer Māori own their homes than ever before. If current trends continue, home ownership among Māori is projected to be effectively zilch by 2061. The rest of the population won’t be far behind.

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The unfastened korowai

The bride didn’t have cold feet; she had bare shoulders.

Forty minutes after the wedding was due to start, Francess Whaanga was still in her bedroom, fretting over the unfastened neck of her korowai. The cloak hung on her shoulders, a thick tussock of red feathers trailing down over her chest.

Luckily, the wedding venue was the couple’s home. The aisle began at the door of the master bedroom, continued down the hallway, then rounded a corner, swung through the kitchen, and into the lounge, where the guests waited.

27 Russell Rd – a three-bedroom house in the Lower Hutt suburb of Wainuiomata – didn’t look like much from the street: a drab olive exterior, with a border of lavender bushes, behind a white-picket fence. To Francess, though, those four walls were a haven. 

It was the place where she found stability in a job as a nurse, and security with her partner of almost 20 years. More than a stage for the mundane theatre of life, the house was a tangible mantle which held their memories together. In the backyard, beside the kōwhai tree, they buried the whenua and pito of their mokopuna

And at $380 a week, the house was also a steal.

After seven years as renters at Russell Rd, the landlord had suggested they buy the property from him. At 60, Francess had never owned a house. But, with the man who was about to become her second husband, she dared to dream.

Francess Whaanga-Tuhi says her wedding day was bittersweet. “It was special to do at the house. We were going to buy that house.”

Francess Whaanga-Tuhi says her wedding day was bittersweet. “It was special to do at the house. We were going to buy that house.”

At that moment, however, the whole house rattled with the force of an unconventional waiata: We Will Rock You. The song was chosen by the groom, Rangatira Tuhi, known to everyone as Ranga. He tapped a foot to the rhythm of the stomp-stomp-clap. Under the influence of that beat, the bride’s absence became like tense pre-match moments at the rugby club, as if whānau, in the lounge, were waiting for the home side to take the field.

Ranga wore a korowai, too, with a pattern of koru that signified new beginnings. But hidden beneath the garment was a small infusion pump, driving morphine through a syringe into his veins.

As the song repeated again, one of the cousins pulled out a chair for him, and he sat down, to save his strength.

The bride and groom wore twin korowai on their wedding day. Francess’ cloak was given to her by Ranga, on her 59th birthday, the year before. It was woven by his daughter; in red, Francess’ favourite colour.

The bride and groom wore twin korowai on their wedding day. Francess’ cloak was given to her by Ranga, on her 59th birthday, the year before. It was woven by his daughter; in red, Francess’ favourite colour.

If those korowai, woven over months, were a labour of love, then the wedding arrangements, thrown together in days, were a triumph of aroha. Mei Whaanga, the eldest of the three sisters, led the preparations: kai, decorations and flowers. 

She would tautoko her baby sister in other ways, moving into the sleepout behind the house following Ranga’s diagnosis of terminal lung cancer a few weeks ago. Now 65 years old, she has always been called the tuakana by her younger sisters, among ten siblings. Francess sometimes still called her “mummy”.

The last few weeks had passed, for Francess, as a horrifying gauntlet of hospital appointments, tests and arrangements. She took indefinite leave from her job as a nurse, and cared for Ranga instead.

The morning of the wedding, she played a dual role: palliative nurse and protector. She administered morphine and other pain killers, negotiating the delicate chemical balance between comfort and lucidity, while at the same time keeping visiting relatives at bay, in order to conserve Ranga’s limited energy.

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Charmaine McLean-Whaanga, the middle sister, would manaaki her sister during that time, too, making plans for the tangihanga, which, by now, everyone accepted was coming.

And, even though she was out of town that day on marae business, she joined the wedding in spirit. At noon, when the wedding was supposed to start, she picked up a taiaha, where she was, and enacted the cultural practice of whakawātea, to acknowledge Francess and Ranga. 

At a quarter to one, the korowai was finally tied, and Francess’ youngest son gave her away. As she walked down the hallway, her mokopuna threw rose petals at her feet, and her chosen waiata, Somewhere Over the Rainbow, played over the speaker. Francess and Ranga were then married, in their own living room, surrounded by whānau.

The bittersweet nature of the day is best summed up by a medley of well wishes and farewells that bounced around the walls of 27 Russell Rd as the guests dispersed that evening. “Congratulations whaea.” “Goodbye matua.”

Only three days later, Ranga would die, with Francess beside him, in the bedroom of their home.

For months afterwards, Francess often found herself unable to leave that room, let alone return to work. Even though Mei stayed on to help cover rent, the dream of someday owning that house was replaced by stresses over everyday expenses.

“I was just scrimping with the rent,” she says. I was trying to hold onto the house, because of the memories. I knew it was time for me to let go.”

Along a backroad, away from the kāinga

At six years old, Francess Whaanga was plucked from the countryside and taken to the city. It was a trip to get ice cream which created the necessary diversion.

She was a whāngai given to an older relative three years earlier, living at a rambling homestead in Māhia, overrun with mokopuna. She couldn’t remember what her own mother looked like.

I used to pray for her to come and get me.
Francess Whaanga

As the ice cream melted down her wrist, and the car sped down a country backroad, Francess tried not to ruin her new dress. The texture and colour of that dress remain vivid to her even now; red velvet with white lace. 

It was a gift from the stranger, at the wheel of the car, who also bought the ice cream – her own mother, Haupai Linda McLean, who was kidnapping her. “My prayers were answered,” Francess says. “I felt like the happiest child in the whole wide world.” 

Haupai Linda McLean with her children, in the 1960s.

Haupai Linda McLean with her children, in the 1960s.

Francess is unsure why an elaborate plot was required to claim her back. Her five other siblings, at the time (the family would later grow to 10 children), migrated with their parents, in 1962, from the rural outskirts of Gisborne to Stokes Valley, then in the midst of large-scale urban development

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Koraunui Marae, seen from above, sits at the heart of the Stokes Valley community. The marea is home to a range of community initiatives, including alternative education, emergency housing, and iwi-based social services.

Koraunui Marae, seen from above, sits at the heart of the Stokes Valley community. The marea is home to a range of community initiatives, including alternative education, emergency housing, and iwi-based social services.

A suburb at the edge of Lower Hutt, the valley is located at the junction of territory claimed by three iwi, Te Āti Awa, Ngāti Toa and Ngāti Kahungunu. It is sometimes called Koraunui, meaning "big ferns", most likely a reference to lush bush which once carpeted the valley between Upper and Lower Hutt.

Large sections of that bush were deforested during the 1960s, replaced by a grid of roads, along with houses built to support a growing population. That community took shape as a patchwork of iwi, who migrated from around the country.

By the time Francess arrived, in 1965, the new subdivision was taking shape. “I was amazed by the roads, the footpaths, the house,” she says. “Because back home, it’s all paddocks.”

That transformation was a microcosm of vast migrations that were then reshaping Aotearoa. In 50 years, Māori underwent one of the fastest rates of urbanisation ever seen in the world: from 83 per cent rural, in 1936, to 83 per cent urban by 1986. 

As the 20th century began New Zealand was, essentially, two separate countries. During early colonisation and war between tribes and colonial forces, different hapū and iwi had been pushed into rural areas, where they remain today. 

Western European migrants built their own towns off a range of fair and dubious land sales, and received the bulk of national and local government services. Some hapū and iwi were able to set up cities and towns too, such as Te Āti Awa at Waiwhetu in the Hutt Valley, and Ngāti Toa in Porirua. At the time, though, Māori mostly lived in rural areas. That changed, in the late 1930s, when Māori began to move to the cities, following better employment prospects.

Aroha Harris (Te Rarawa, Ngāpuhi) says urban drift is an offensive term. “What does that even look like? Like does someone suddenly float in the air, float away without thinking.” Photo: Lawrence Smith

Aroha Harris (Te Rarawa, Ngāpuhi) says urban drift is an offensive term. “What does that even look like? Like does someone suddenly float in the air, float away without thinking.” Photo: Lawrence Smith

Aroha Harris is an associate professor at the University of Auckland, specialising in Māori histories throughout the 20th century. She says Māori made tragic sacrifices in order to migrate, but were never unwitting pawns.

“They made careful decisions about whether or not to go; who would go and who would stay behind. I have heard stories of whole families moving, three generations all going together,” Harris says.

“I’ve also interviewed people who, when they left, decided they were leaving forever. They were never ever coming home. There wasn’t anything to come back to, in some cases.”

Matthew Rout says urbanisation is part of the reason for poor housing outcomes, but not the whole reason. “As most of these stories do, it goes back to colonisation.” Photo: John Kirk-Anderson

Matthew Rout says urbanisation is part of the reason for poor housing outcomes, but not the whole reason. “As most of these stories do, it goes back to colonisation.” Photo: John Kirk-Anderson

University of Canterbury senior research fellow Matthew Rout co-authored Homeless and Landless in Two Generations, a paper which traces how factors such as land loss and intergenerational poverty mean almost no Māori will own houses by 2061, unless the current trajectory reverses.

He says that villages and kāinga acted, for a time, as a kind of “protective envelope”, or buffer from colonisation. Migration to the cities, however, was effectively a transition from a subsistence lifestyle into low-wage work.

“Consider all the trade training schemes in the 1960s. And if you go beyond that, the colonial discourse which positioned Māori as subaltern, or blue-collar workers, basically. It’s all a direct outcome of state policies, state intentions.”

Fiona Cram, who leads the kaupapa Māori research organisation Katoa Ltd, says those imperatives were long standing.

“Māori served this country, not just in the war, but in all the big projects: in the dams, in the railways, in building infrastructure in this country, and were offered rental accommodation that aligned with their jobs. 

“And they moved all over the place as a consequence; so people in their 50s and 60s, who grew up with their whānau renting, were often in rental accommodation because their parents moved for work all the time.”

Teihi Peka Whaanga is remembered by his children as a storyteller and voracious reader.

Teihi Peka Whaanga is remembered by his children as a storyteller and voracious reader.

Teihi Peka Whaanga, the father of the three sisters and their seven brothers, was no stranger to life on the road. He was a roadman, employed by the Ministry of Works – a class of workers upon whose labour the backbone of Aotearoa was built: its highways and roads. Once the family moved to Koraunui, he would retrain as a foreman.

Harris says the state aimed to extract from the kāinga as much as it aimed to attract to the city.

“The policies were not only about attracting Māori to the city. They were actually about shutting down our villages and kāinga; withdrawing resources there.

They didn’t really want Māori to hold onto their land interests in the way we like to. They didn’t think that would be necessary in a modern world.
Aroha Harris

Into the city as a wilderness

Charmaine McLean-Whaanga, left, and Mei Whaanga, right, with brother Teihi Whaanga during the 1960s.

Charmaine McLean-Whaanga, left, and Mei Whaanga, right, with brother Teihi Whaanga during the 1960s.

Charmaine McLean-Whaanga, left, Mei Whaanga, and Francess Whaanga-Tuhi during the 2000s.

Charmaine McLean-Whaanga, left, Mei Whaanga, and Francess Whaanga-Tuhi during the 2000s.

As darkness fell upon the leafy canopy, the Whaanga children didn’t know if they would find their way home.

Throughout the neighbourhood, the children had become known as the ducklings, a name given for the orderly queue they formed wherever they went. Mei was always at the head of the line.

That day the siblings wanted to show Francess her new backyard, setting out that morning for hills at the back of Stokes Valley. But hours later, they were lost in a dense bush.

“Don’t worry,” Mei told her younger siblings. “We’re going to be fine, we’ll find our way.” 

Known as the Horoeka Scenic Reserve, those same hills are maintained today as walking tracks, with miniature doorways placed at strategic points along the trail, intended as entertainment for young trampers. 

In the 1960s, those hills were an entrance into a world the sisters had left behind. Eventually they followed the creek down the hill, and found their way home again.

Mei was 12 years old when the Whaanga family boarded the train from Gisborne to Wellington. They moved to 5 Logie St, in Stokes Valley – a four-bedroom house, newly built by the Department of Māori Affairs. Often, in the evenings, Teihi Peka Whaanga would tell his children vivid stories about their tūrangawaewae, the place they came from, on the East Coast. He even devised a makeshift television out of a lunch-wrap box, as a visual aid.

Mei Whaanga says moving to the city meant a restriction of freedoms. “We were learning we couldn’t just go here and there.”

Mei Whaanga says moving to the city meant a restriction of freedoms. “We were learning we couldn’t just go here and there.”

“He would talk about it, and I would be crying,” Mei says. “Every night I used to cry. There was a yearning, within my being. But we had to adjust by the regulations of the land and the law.”

In the country, we would just run around, black bloomers on. It wasn’t a shame to us.
Mei Whaanga

But, in the city, there was false modesty and private property – infringements against which led to the police being called on at least one occasion.

By the 1960s, families had begun to migrate to cities in significant numbers, and housing was the stimulus. The Department of Māori Affairs housing scheme, which existed in various forms from 1935 to 1967, provided Māori with a plausible pathway to home ownership through low-interest loans. As an alternative, the state also provided rental homes.

Rout says the programme was positive, insofar as it represented a “high-tide mark” for Government investment in housing for Māori.

“Māori moved into the cities when the state was at its most supportive and beneficent, and was providing housing and employment.

Cram says that racism was embedded in the housing programme through pepper-potting, a strategy which meant dispersing Māori into streets of Pākehā families.

Fiona Cram (Ngāti Pahauwera) says the Department of Māori Affairs housing programme has a complicated legacy. Photo: Abigail Dougherty

Fiona Cram (Ngāti Pahauwera) says the Department of Māori Affairs housing programme has a complicated legacy. Photo: Abigail Dougherty

“The Government decided that Māori could have access to home loans through the Māori Affairs programmes, and potentially capitalise their child's benefit,” she says.

“But they had to go and buy a house in a good white neighbourhood, so that that white neighbourhood would have a good influence on them.”

Harris, too, resists a tendency to view the housing scheme through rose-tinted glasses.

“You still needed a decent income, to be able to service your mortgage. That generation of people who bought homes dealt with double-digit interest rates. It’s not exactly the nirvana people think it was.”

“One of the things about the impact of urban migration is that there are so many outcomes,” says Aroha Harris. Photo: Lawrence Smith

“One of the things about the impact of urban migration is that there are so many outcomes,” says Aroha Harris. Photo: Lawrence Smith

Even when whānau did manage to buy a house in the city, the reliance on the Government for work was a ceiling of another kind. “They were at the bottom level in terms of income, meaning there was no intergenerational wealth developing,” Harris says.

Such was the case for the Whaanga clan. The sisters don’t remember the exact terms of the purchase, but eventually their parents owned the house at 5 Logie St. 

As an educated guess, Rout says they might’ve capitalised each child’s benefit as a deposit and then paid off a low-interest loan from the Government.

At the dawn of the 1970s, housing and employment were quickly becoming welfare obligations rather than democratic principles. But for a time the Government's initial investment in housing had a long tail, with home ownership rates among Māori fluctuating, with occasional increases, as recently as the 1980s. 

Harris says the situation was unsustainable, as the social reforms of the early 1990s would later expose. “Everyone was plugged into the welfare state. And we know how that goes; it all slowly gets wound back over time.”

And, whatever its intentions, the Māori Affairs housing scheme didn’t prevent a decline in Māori homeownership. In 1936, roughly 70 per cent of Māori either owned their home, or lived in a house that was owned by Māori. By 1986 only 49 per cent of Māori owned the house they lived in, sharply lower than the general population, which, at that time, hovered around 73 per cent. 

Rout says urbanisation was one among a “cascading array” of reasons for that chronic decline. The other reasons were wide-spread institutional racism, and the inability to accumulate intergenerational wealth. 

But urbanisation was the “context change” which left Māori poised for disaster.

“Māori have moved into the cities; they’re working predominantly for the public sector,” Rout says. “They’re in this really precarious position, where they are dependent on the state for their income and housing.

That left them at the ravages and vicissitudes of the global market, and this is the outcome that we see now; terrible poverty and poor housing outcomes.
Matthew Rout

The economic reforms of the 1980s changed the labour workforce for Māori, with thousands losing their jobs and incomes. Many could no longer afford to pay off their mortgages or buy new homes.

As is the case for home ownership more generally, the Mother of all Budgets drops onto any graph charting Māori home ownership like a lead weight. In 1991, the Government introduced market rates to rentals and the accommodation supplement, moves credited by some with setting the course for today’s housing crisis.

“It was the year Māori home ownership rates started to drop, and they never rose again,” Rout says. “They just kept trending down.”

The sprightly kuia of Avalon

At 67, Mei Whaanga isn’t the tuakana anymore. In fact, she has become the pōtiki.

“Ninety-four is the oldest,” she says, listing the ages of her neighbours. “And then another one round back, 74 years old. I got invited over for a cup of tea the other day.”

She moved into the one-bedroom house four months ago, part of a small block of council housing flats, in the Lower Hutt suburb of Avalon. The house might sit on a slight lean, but within its walls Mei’s feet feel firmly planted.

It’s my own space. I can yell and scream, and all that. I’m really grateful.
Mei Whaanga

She sits down in her favourite chair, surrounded by family photos, and unfurls a patchwork quilt, knitted in all the colours of the rainbow. The blanket took around two years to complete; she closed the final stitch at the end of last year.

“The purple square is for Ranga; the red square is for Francess,” Mei Whaanga says.

“The purple square is for Ranga; the red square is for Francess,” Mei Whaanga says.

The timespan of that ambitious knitting project mirrors the time Mei lived at 27 Russell Rd with her sister.

She stayed on after the tangi in order to give emotional and financial support. The sleepout became Mei’s bedroom and workspace during those two years. Francess continued to sleep in the bedroom she once shared with her husband, even while her grief seemed to engulf the house.

Ask Mei to describe her youngest sister, and she does not hesitate. Her sister’s eyes, she says, are like a window looking directly onto her wairua

“We grew to understand and love one another even deeper, I really believe that.”

Mei’s housing journey before then is like a train voyage through deep fog.

For at least a decade, she couch-surfed at her daughter’s house. The lounge at the rental was large, and could be easily transformed into a bedroom on a day-to-day basis, she says. She never considered herself to be homeless; she was surrounded by whānau, after all. 

I was just so grateful that I had a place, and a place with my children.
Mei Whaanga

Mei had lived in Naenae for many years, in social housing with her first husband, where they raised their children. Then, in the late 1980s after her father moved back to Māhia, Mei and her second husband bought the house at 5 Logie St.

The precise details of that transaction are vague. But it seems that, after separating from her second husband, she struggled to keep up with mortgage payments, and eventually lost the house.

Mei places that event sometime in the early 2000s, and while she offered the house to whānau there was reluctance and inability to take on the cost. The house is recorded as being sold for $125,700, in 2005, which Mei says she split among her children. A capital valuation of 5 Logie St sits at $735,000 today.

Mei is philosophical about that time in her life.

“I sold it cause I couldn’t keep up. But sometimes you have to let go to move on. That’s the same with my sister, the house in Wainuiomata [27 Russell Rd]. She had to let go ‘cause there’s too many memories.”

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Even before Mei moved in with Francess, she was on a council housing waiting list through Urban Plus, a social housing provider owned by Hutt City Council.

Then late last year the landlord at 27 Russell Rd told Francess he planned to renovate the house, and afterwards increase the rent, placing a house that was already a financial burden definitively out of reach. At about that time, while both sisters were making arrangements to stay with family, Mei found a house through Urban Plus.

So she moved to Lower Hutt and, for the first time in her life, has been living without whānau. “It can be quite lonely,” she says.

Mei’s Christian faith is at the centre of her life, in ways that keep her busy: several hui each week and proselytizing around the suburb. Most weeks she visits family, or family visits her. Then there’s the thriving social scene at her doorstep: high tea with her Avalon neighbours. “I’m quite busy for 67.”

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‘I fit in with the marae, and the marae fits in with me’

Koraunui Marae has always been a safe haven for Charmaine McLean-Whaanga.

It’s more than a venue for tangihanga – though it has often been that, too. It was through the k​​ōhanga reo, on its grounds, that she learned the Māori language.

Then, when she retrained as a social worker in her 50s, the marae was where she found a job. Now, at 66, the marae is where she still comes into work each morning. 

“I fit in with the marae, and the marae fits in with me,” she says.

It’s like a home away from home.
Charmaine McLean-Whaanga

The marae is also a literal housing provider. Since 2017 it has been part of the Government’s emergency housing programme, providing 10 rooms across two houses – one in Naenae, and the other in Lower Hutt – for single wāhine, or wāhine with children. That’s Charmaine’s job, supporting those women during the transition into emergency housing, then working with them to find more permanent housing.

Late last year, when the landlord at 27 Russell Rd signalled his intent to raise the rent, Charmaine had a conversation with her youngest sister.

“I had to take off my sister hat, and put on my social worker hat. ‘You need to move out, sis. You can’t afford it,’” she told her younger sibling. Charmaine offered up Koraunui Marae as a possible solution, and, after an exploratory conversation with the marae’s manager, Francess moved in.

Charmaine McLean-Whaanga credits Koraunui Marae — and marae manager Henrietta Gemmell — for being a wellspring of reassurance and support throughout her life.

Charmaine McLean-Whaanga credits Koraunui Marae — and marae manager Henrietta Gemmell — for being a wellspring of reassurance and support throughout her life.

As far as Charmaine is concerned, however, the provision of housing through the marae is nothing new. “The marae has always been open to anyone who needs it.” As early as the late 1970s, the marae owned the two emergency houses – keeping them for whānau who needed somewhere to stay.

And today, when Charmaine supports women who need emergency housing, she speaks from experience. Koraunui Marae was where she helself came eight years ago.

“My father always said ‘you’ve got to make sure your four walls are OK before you go out and try to help other people’,” she recalls.

Well, things weren’t going very well with my husband and I. The light bulb came on, as it does: ‘I’m getting too old for this’. I decided to leave.
Charmaine McLean-Whaanga

The couple had scrimped and saved to pay off a mortgage at a house in Stokes Valley. When she left her husband, though, she became homeless.

Koraunui Marae took her in. She moved into the emergency house in Lower Hutt, where she still lives today, a place she refers to as a safe haven, just like the marae. “It rebirthed me as a woman.”

In the early 1990s, Charmaine left Stokes Valley to live with her father, who years earlier had relocated back to Māhia. Charmaine was inspired to do so, in order to learn her whakapapa, and get to know her father’s side of the family.

“That’s what the marae does; it brings out the true essence of yourself,” Charmaine McLean-Whaanga says. “That’s what it’s done for me.”

“That’s what the marae does; it brings out the true essence of yourself,” Charmaine McLean-Whaanga says. “That’s what it’s done for me.”

She would live in Māhia for ten years, and it took at least five of those years before the community accepted her.

“It’s the same as a marae, if you look at it: you don’t just go somewhere and expect someone to accept you, even though you’re family. It’s all a work in progress.”

A few months ago, Charmaine’s estranged husband died, leaving her their house. They had not spoken since the separation – but, at the request of her children, she came to the hospital.

“It was time for everybody to forgive and enjoy every day of each other’s company, with aroha.”

The pull of the kāinga

Photo: Lawrence Smith

Photo: Lawrence Smith

Shiloh Groot is a social scientist and lecturer at the University of Auckland, whose research looks at homelessness and urban poverty. She says Māori shouldn’t be pushed back into papakāinga; they should feel the karanga, and be pulled.

It’s almost an act of violence to expect them to go back, kick them out of a particular city that they’ve lived in, the places they’ve built family and community.
Shiloh Groot

The housing crisis was complex, and required a multifaceted approach.

Iwi-led housing and papakāinga – such as the Te Puna Wai development in Lower Hutt – were an important part of that solution, though might not be accessible for all whānau. 

Māori retained just five per cent of the land they once held, most of it undeveloped or unoccupied. And while recent Government investment in Māori housing was a step in the right direction, it was hardly transformational.

Rebecca Kiddle,  a senior lecturer at the Victoria University School of Architecture whose research considers Māori placemaking, says Māori housing initiatives often focus on rural settings, at the expense of urban ones.

There’s a lot of harking back to the old days, where we went home to the country. But the reality is most of us who are living in cities quite like them.
Rebecca Kiddle

“And I know cities are a source of pain, or a symbol of things lost: tikanga, language, housing, safety and security. But they don’t have to be.

The problem with always conceptualising Māoriness as being a rural thing is that we’re not taking the opportunities to create Māori cities.” 

Rebecca Kiddle (Ngāti Porou, Ngā Puhi) says papakāinga, particularly in urban settings, is an “exciting prospect”.

Rebecca Kiddle (Ngāti Porou, Ngā Puhi) says papakāinga, particularly in urban settings, is an “exciting prospect”.

There were some effective examples of urban papakāinga, such as an innovative residential development by Ngāti Whātua Ōrākei, on tribal land, five kilometres to the east of Auckland’s city centre.

The challenge, then, was whether Government policy could be fluid to think through the many kinds of arrangements that existed for whānau. 

Cram says that, ultimately, policies needed to provide Māori with lots of options. There was a need for tailored kaumātua housing, such as that provided by the Rauawaawa Kaumātua Charitable Trust, in Kirikiriroa. There was also the need to look at co-housing options, incorporating multiple ways of building houses, meaning those equipped for multigenerational living, as well as options like single-person flats.

“It’s more than just building houses, we need to have a conversation about how we want to live together. What’s the kawa of the papakāinga, or the co-housing development?”

Kiddle says home ownership needn’t even be the whole focus, with the rights of renters equally as important.

“I don’t know if home ownership is actually a panacea, and while I understand the desire for people to own their homes, it doesn’t actually have to be quite like that,” she says. “There are lots of opportunities to rent if there were policy mechanisms to make them stable and secure – as happens in Western Europe, for example. But we don’t take up those [policy mechanisms] here in Aotearoa.”

Shiloh Groot (Ngāti Pikiao, Ngāti Uenukukopako) says that solving the housing crisis requires a multifaceted approach. Photo: Lawrence Smith

Shiloh Groot (Ngāti Pikiao, Ngāti Uenukukopako) says that solving the housing crisis requires a multifaceted approach. Photo: Lawrence Smith

Groot says the housing crisis inspires understandable despair, but the solution could be simple: put Māori at the centre. While the phrase might be a cliche, what was good for Māori would be good for Aotearoa.

If you can solve it for Māori, you can solve it for us all. In order to solve it for Māori, you have to be able to address the multiplicity of human experiences.
Shiloh Groot

“You have to think long term. You have to think about human reconnection. You have to think about dignity. You have to think about people in their wholeness, their emotional, their physical, their material, their environmental, their spiritual. If you can do that, you can think about how to resolve it for all of us.”

Kiddle says Māori have always been resilient and would continue to be.

“Māori haven’t been cultural dopes. We’ve actually subverted urban space to create living situations that suit us anyway, despite the constraints that have come out of colonial norms around how one should live.”

Groot supports that sentiment. “We’ve always been navigators, haven’t we?”

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Te mana o te wāhine

In June, Francess went back to work. A few days a week she performs cervical smears at Mana Wāhine, a women’s health clinic based in Lower Hutt. 

She traces the impetus for that return to a breakthrough in counselling. It was during those sessions that Francess realised she was angry: with herself, with the people around her, but also with her late husband. That anger was like an anchor, dragging her down wherever she went, the psychologist told her. Then, during one session, she was asked to name some of “the beautiful things” Ranga did for her.

“I remember he used to pick lavender from the bushes outside our house, and leave them on the table for me,” Francess says.

“All I could think of were the sad things, through the grieving. But then the other beautiful things came back to me, all the good memories. And that took away the sadness, and the anger.”

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On her second day at work, the Mana Wāhine initiative celebrated its 30th anniversary, with a gathering held at Koraunui Marae. Francess listened intently to kāumatua that day – some of whom had been with the clinic since its inception – and their kōrero about overcoming adversity.

“It was really healing for me,” she says. “To hear the history of how they struggled to get from there to where they are now.”

Mei was in attendance too, and thought she recognised her sister. “She looked like herself again – for the first time in years.” Charmaine, who was helping to manage the event, went a step further. “Sister, your wairua is radiant today,” she said.

The sisters each have plans for the future. Mei hopes to move into “a bigger, more modern flat” in her new neighbourhood, Avalon. Charmaine is considering selling the house, which she owned with her husband – and then, with the money, buying a plot of land in Māhia. 

The routine of going back to work over the last few months has helped Francess normalise her new surroundings, if not, exactly, accept them. She doesn’t want to stay in emergency housing long term – and, though an exact timeline is outside her control, she knows what a house will mean to her: happiness.

I’m happy with myself. I was happy to go back to work. Someday soon, I’ll be happy to get my own place.
Francess Whaanga-Tuhi

Francess still wears the korowai at whānau gatherings and other special occasions. Tying its neck each time, she thinks of Ranga. She knows he would want her to keep going. And wherever she goes next, on either side, will be her sisters.

Francess Whaanga-Tuhi, left, Charmaine McLean-Whaanga, and Mei Whaanga at Koraunui Marae. “I don’t know what I’d do without my sisters,” Francess says.

Francess Whaanga-Tuhi, left, Charmaine McLean-Whaanga, and Mei Whaanga at Koraunui Marae. “I don’t know what I’d do without my sisters,” Francess says.

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Words: Ethan Te Ora

Visuals: Rosa Woods, Lawrence Smith, Abigail Dougherty, John Kirk-Anderson

Design & layout: Aaron Wood

Editor: Anna Fifield